


From Each According to Their Needs

by elithewho



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Sex Work, Power Imbalance, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:54:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24140152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elithewho/pseuds/elithewho
Summary: Anya should never have accepted his invitation to tea. She could sense his awkwardness, how hard he tried to relax himself. But she could see a fine tremor in his hand as he fiddled with the samovar, fumbled for a slice of lemon. Anya brought her own cup to her mouth, barely drinking.
Relationships: Anya | Anastasia Romanov/Gleb Vaganov
Comments: 21
Kudos: 62





	From Each According to Their Needs

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to my sun and stars, Morgan <3 for the beta and the suggestions and being the bestest.

Anya should never have accepted his invitation to tea. She could sense his awkwardness, how hard he tried to relax himself. But she could see a fine tremor in his hand as he fiddled with the samovar, fumbled for a slice of lemon. Anya brought her own cup to her mouth, barely drinking.

“Thank you, comrade,” she muttered for the second or third time. It seemed important that he think her grateful.

His lips twitched. He drank deeply. Gleb was a man of practiced motions.

“You work hard,” he said carefully and Anya fought to hold his gaze. He was staring, always so deeply staring. “A good, hardworking Russian deserves good things.”

Anya’s nails clattered on the teacup as she fidgeted. It was fine porcelain, but chipped. Even here, in this lovely teahouse, dregs of the old empire.

“We’re all equal now,” she couldn’t stop herself saying. “We should all have nice things.” It came out more wryly than it should have in present company, and she immediately wanted to bite it back. The expression on Gleb’s face was difficult to read. As though he couldn’t work out what she meant. Or what he wanted her to mean.

His teacup clinked on its dish, finely cracked porcelain on finely cracked porcelain. “Regardless,” he said. Stopped, as though holding his breath. “Regardless, hard work should be rewarded.”

Anya merely nodded, trying hard to make her expression guileless as she brought the cup to her lips, tried for a more substantial sip. Anxiety made it hard to swallow, as though a stone lived in her throat. So tart, so sweet; she should consume all she can while she had the chance. The tea cakes called to her. No reason to think they’d be supplemented with rock dust in this fine establishment. White sugar dusted over her lips as she took a bite, savoring the sweetness and crumbly texture.

All the while, she could not help noticing Gleb’s gaze on her every movement. Her tongue swiped unconsciously at the powdery sugar clinging to her lip and he was fixated. She watched his hand clench as it lay on the table, his eyes darken. Well, Anya had had worse men for a lot less. It was best to steel herself now for the inevitable.

However, as Gleb paid for their tea and then escorted her out into the cold, he did nothing else. He did not grab her arm, pulling her to him. He did not invite her back to his place to get warm. He barely looked at her.

Wrongfooted again, Anya scuffed her feet together, staring at the ground as Gleb buttoned his coat with practiced efficiency.

“I hope to see you again soon, comrade,” he said stiffly, holding his hand out for a shake. No insinuations, no perversions! Anya may have thought she had only imagined his interest in her but for the way he tensed when she took his gloved hand in hers. Even through wool and leather, she could feel it.

“Thank you again, comrade,” she muttered. “Until next time.”

And if Anya wasn’t so desperate for a little warmth, some tea and cookies and whatever else, she might have hoped there wouldn’t be a next time. But the flat she shared with a widowed mother and her screaming baby grew smaller every minute. Her hands ached with cold from her work sweeping, sweeping, endlessly sweeping. Fingers so stiff they could not bend.

Maybe it was the cold that made her heart leap at his familiar form approaching her. And hunger. Hunger was familiar too, but she was dizzy and fatigued by it still.

“Good evening,” Gleb said kindly. Some facsimile of kindness anyway.

“Comrade,” she said lightly, lightly as she could.

“You’re shivering, come inside.”

Oh? Inside where? His warm bed perhaps? Anya had been hoping for food first before all that, but she wasn’t in any place to argue. She was so sure of his intentions that she was actually surprised when they ended up at the teahouse again.

Anya tried not to eat too ravenously. Tiny sandwiches and bite-sized cookies, jam so sweet it made her teeth ache. Gleb glared at her in his disconcerting way and Anya merely gobbled more of her bribes. For bribes they must be, because what else?

“I thought you might need some of... some extra.” His voice caught in his throat as he slid a bundle across the starched white tablecloth to her. Food vouchers, more than she’d usually get in a week. Her heart constricted.

“Thank you,” she said with a crackly softness, unable to trust herself to speak more. Gleb, well, Gleb almost smiled.

And yet, they parted ways again without Gleb demanding a single thing from her. It was a frustrating dance. Anya could feed herself now, feeling a sharp electric shock of shame every time she drew from his bundle of food vouchers to pay for her bread. Shame and anxiety, for he hadn’t yet made her pay for his generosity. Surely he would, surely. On her back or on her knees, that was always the way of things. Anya was no stranger to it and she wouldn’t cringe away when the moment arrived, she wouldn’t allow herself to. But the agony of waiting was too much.

Food vouchers, extra soap, whatever he was playing at with the teahouse. Staring at her, pupils wide in his dark eyes, brow furrowed, jaw clenched. He watched her with an intensity that bordered on mania. As though he’d been instructed to memorize her face and every movement. Sometimes he would touch her chin, tip up her face to look at him. His jaw twitched, as though he were sick from looking at her. Sick from the wanting.

At least that’s what she saw. Gleb was impossible to decipher sometimes. Anya often wondered if his stilted awkwardness was as carefully manufactured as the rest of him. Or maybe he wasn’t so complex, maybe he was just a boy in a soldier’s body. Mostly he made her anxious, unsure, and hateful of her increasing debt to him.

And her extra income did not go unnoticed by her flatmate Irina, she of the screaming infant.

“How nice to have extra bread and milk,” she spat angrily, the mewling creature in her arms never ceasing. “If only I could have a soldier to fuck and give me things. I’d be a little slut too.”

Anya pointedly did not respond. She didn’t have to share some of her extra food with Irina and her awful child, but did anyway and got insults in return. How the words cut at her, how they were lies and truth at the same time. If only Gleb could make it simple, make her his honest whore instead of clinging to the dregs of his confused generosity.

And it only grew worse when he gave her more things. He summoned her to his office one afternoon, the snow swirling thickly on the streets, thickly frosting the windows. Anya rubbed her hands together fiercely, clutching her threadbare scarf tighter around her ears. Did he expect her to service him there, in his office? Anything was possible with Gleb.

Inside, it was warm, windless, toasty with good, Bolshevik coal. Anya took off her scarf, peeled away her fingerless gloves.

“I brought you something. Something for the cold.” His lips twisted into a smile, gesturing towards the snow-caked window as though making a joke.

Anya pressed her lips together tightly.

He cleared his throat, smoothed his hair back. “Anyway. Here.”

From under his desk, he pulled a heavy trunk, undid the straps. Clothes. Wool and cotton and linen, even leather. Dresses and skirts and shirtwaists, scarves and gloves. All slightly worn. Gleb was smiling shyly again, pleased at his gift. But Anya, briefly dazzled, felt her stomach twist. These had belonged to someone. Someone likely dead. But Gleb expected her to be grateful.

Carefully, she arranged her face into a passive smile and knelt to examine the contents of the trunk. It would be nice to have more clothes, more layers between her and the cold of winter. And under the few new dresses were stockings too. Nice, thick wool ones, far better than the ones she wore now, riddled with holes and darned to the point of collapse. And also...

Gleb made a choked, gargled sound in his throat as Anya unearthed a bundle of silky ladies’ underwear. Camisole, knickers, combinations with lace and ribbons on the edges. So much finer than what she’d ever been able to afford. She held one up to examine it, buttery fabric slipping through her fingers. Gleb seemed to be paralyzed by his own awkwardness.

“It’s lovely,” she muttered, biting back a smile at the flustered look on his face. She packed it all back into the trunk to save him from throwing himself out the nearest window. “Thank you.”

Now, if Anya didn’t know any better, she’d have expected Gleb to entice her into modelling the new underthings for him. Of course, there was always the possibility he would. She caught his gaze, the way he looked at her, the trunk, as though picturing its contents against his will. Anya bit the inside of her cheek, furious at his indecision. _Take what you want, take it!_ She wanted to scream. _You have the power here!_

Instead, she very demurely smoothed her skirts and went to lug the heavy trunk out the door.

Gleb grabbed immediately for the handle, pulling it from her grasp. “Please,” he said shortly.

Well, she couldn’t argue. He was strong, broad as an ox. The perfect windup soldier toy for the state. He could handle carrying a few trunks.

Irina was home, tragically. Anya could hear the child screaming down the hall. Gleb insisted on bringing the trunk to her door, his expression inscrutable as he observed the tiny hovel she called home. Irina’s own expression was without mystery. And she made her opinion known as soon as Gleb had gone, leaving the ladies with nothing more than a tip of his hat. “Bolshevik whore,” she sneered. But the desperate envy under her contempt only made Anya feel sorry for her.

And Anya wished she could feel better about her new possessions. It felt so nice putting them on but the ghost of their previous owner still clung to every stitch. Irina’s comments only stung because Anya knew she’d think the same thing in her position. Of course she was a Bolshevik whore, in almost every detail. She didn’t deserve new clothes any more than Irina did.

The day was cold, bitter cold, when the soldiers came for Anya. She was sweeping, wrapped tightly in her new scarf, concentrating on not concentrating. Soldiers with jackboots and thick coats, stern faces. The thrill of terror was bone-deep, as if from some nightmare she tried very hard to forget. She froze, unable to not imagine their guns pointed directly at her face.

Frozen as the statue of Lenin in the square, Anya could only watch as they approached her. Surrounded her.

“Comrade Anya?” one said and she stared blankly at him for long moments before nodding stiffly.

They led her away as though to her death. And where else could they lead her? Clearly she had done something wrong and Gleb had grown tired of her. She didn’t act the way he wanted her to act. She hadn’t truly been his whore.

Would there be pain? Surely a bullet to the brain would end her quickly, but she couldn’t be sure. Some deep and abiding horror permeated her brain, made her choke on her own breath. She was barely taking in her surroundings as the soldiers led her to a fancy row of flats. Somewhere high-ranking party members lived, not impoverished street sweepers. What a lovely yet horrible place to die.

She was shaking as they led her into a flat, Anya following like an obedient puppy. And there was Gleb, his uniform pristine, his hair combed. The flat was in vague disarray: open cabinets, empty nails on the walls where pictures once hung. But there were other signs of life, like dishes still in the sink, clothes strewn on the floor. The inhabitants must have vacated quickly.

“Anya,” Gleb said, his face brightening.

But Anya could not stop her shaking. Would he kill her slowly? With his bare hands?

“Comrade,” she said in a quiet plea, barely above a whisper.

His face changed, brow furrowed, and he moved towards her. Anya stiffened on instinct, every limb gone rigid. His large hands hovered by her face and Anya felt dizzy, struck suddenly by how very tall he was. So much taller than her.

“You’re shaking,” he said, voice like a falling leaf. His expression turned hard and Anya realized she was silently crying, the tears on her face salty and hot. He made some gesture to the soldiers behind her and they filed out. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he grit out, jaw clenched.

She couldn’t make sense of it, especially not his arms closing around her shoulders instead of her throat, gently rather than with violence. His touch seemed to bring her back and she grabbed for his lapels, hauling him towards her. “Please, I’ll do anything — anything. I don’t want to die!”

Anya caught only a glance of his appalled expression before she was attacking his mouth with hers. It felt that way, at least — an aggressive act of war instead of waiting for the other side to strike. She was so short, his face far enough from hers that she needed to stand up on her tip toes, grabbing the back of his neck to pull him down. There was a soft clatter as his hat hit the floor.

“Anya, Anya, no—” he stuttered as she kissed him harder.

She swallowed down his surprised moan, kept kissing him until he reacted. A hand trailed down her waist, squeezed her hips. He was thick and solid against her but so much was drowned out by the pounding of her heart like a workman’s hammer. His broad palm cupped her face, tangled in her hair. His beard bristled against her lips, rough as gravel. Anya realized that his heart was beating fast too, against her own. She had him.

Something seemed to break inside him. Suddenly Gleb was lifting her as easily as he might a ragdoll, crushing her to his chest as he stumbled towards a low couch. Anya allowed him to deposit her there, his breath heavy now and not from exertion. Her hands were curiously steady as she tugged at the brass buttons on his uniform, at the belt that held it closed. His own hands, much less steady, tore open her shirtwaist. Buttons scattered, white as bone. She spread her legs, rucking up her skirts. _Let him have her,_ she thought savagely. _Let him have it all._

Gleb was still the one shaking as he fumbled open his trousers, coal black hair falling over his forehead. Anya tugged down her knickers, the lace-edged ones he had given her. Slow, as though not to spook a frightened horse, she trailed a hand down his front, down the white undershirt sticking to his skin, down the front of his unbuttoned trousers. The muscles in his hard, flat stomach leapt at her touch. He was already hard, painfully so based on the strangled, breathless sound he made when she cupped him through his underwear. His eyes, predator’s eyes, but with a predator’s fear of its prey when the final attack might yet be countered.

But he jerked her hand away, pinching her wrist painfully. And then he was on her, unable to contain himself a moment longer perhaps. He pushed inside her with little finesse. Anya grit her teeth and buried her face in his shoulder, his uniform still half on, the hard edge of the epaulette digging into her cheek.

Pain was easy. Nothing to it, letting him fuck her on some dead person’s couch, strong hands gripping her thighs high up over her stockings. She bit into the drab olive wool of his uniform coat, stifling the crazed sounds she felt within her. He rutted like an animal, hard and fast. Her head was spinning by the time he groaned, hands clenching and thrusts out of rhythm, coming inside her with a shudder.

Anya did not look at him as he pulled away, fixed his trousers. She stared hard at the empty spaces where pictures had once hung, imagining pastoral paintings and family portraits. Holy icons. Beside her, Gleb buttoned up his coat, smoothed his hair, glancing back as if to catch her eye. Anya stared straight ahead, not bothering with her torn shirt.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said in a soft voice. Too soft.

“I know you didn’t,” she muttered, and somehow meant it. No reason to twist herself into knots over this man, he wasn’t as complicated as all that.

He stood, towering over her again, hands awkwardly fidgeting. Finally, she stood, smoothing out her wrinkled skirt. His eyes raked over her and he looked... ashamed.

A hand fished in his trouser pocket and he produced a brass key, held it out to her. “Here. For you. I’ll be back in a few days, see how you’re settling in.”

Anya accepted the key without a word, feeling it warm in her palm. And there was more, a thick envelope from the recesses of his coat. She peeked inside to see a neat row of rubles. More money than she’d ever had at once.

“A little housewarming gift,” he said, smile tweaking his lips, "for bread and salt." Another one of his little jokes. Anya couldn’t bring herself to smile.

Gleb swallowed back his awkwardness and turned his back to her, reaching down to collect his hat and replace it firmly on his head. She half expected him to turn around and salute. “Anya,” he muttered, tipping his head.

She could only nod in response, and then she watched him go.

~

Gleb often wished he could be different. Better. To be a good and honourable man, even if it meant making the hard choices. He had only ever meant to help the girl.

At least he told himself that. She had looked so wretched, so thin and small. Golden brown braid like a crown, an icon’s halo. He could share his own privileges with her, help another good Russian get back on their feet. From each according to their abilities, as the motto went, and that allowed him to keep giving her things with no expectations in return. He thought. He told himself. Told himself too that her face didn’t haunt him, or the touch of her slender hand. Those deep blue eyes, piercing his soul like exploding shells.

_“Anya, Anya, no—”_

Later, he could construct the fiction that he tried to do the honourable thing. Deep down, the truth itched at him. He had been lost the moment he touched her chin, looked into her eyes.

At home, Gleb poured himself vodka, desperate to purge himself of the memories of just a few hours earlier. How he had acted so monstrous. He thought he could contain his lustful urges, waking up in the night to his hard cock smearing wet on his stomach, thoughts of Anya so tempting and so close. He would take himself in hand, relieve that desire that plagued him. At least for a little while.

The bruise on her neck. The torn buttons. The hot clutch of her thighs. Vodka burned like fire in his throat but it could not smother the longing. He could tuck his sticky and spent cock back into his trousers and be on his way, but it wouldn’t be the end. As much as he wanted it to be.

Seeing her again, in that flat he’d found for her, so much nicer than where she’d been living, lit the fire all over again. He was struck dumb by her beauty, unable to articulate anything beyond the simplest greeting.

“Comrade,” she said stiffly, wiping her hands on her apron. She had prepared tea.

There was a white lace tablecloth, a silver samovar, a willow patterned china dish of honey cake. Domestic articles that must have been left behind by the previous occupants. He tried not to think about them. The state must self-regulate.

Gleb sat stiffly as Anya poured them tea, her hands pale in the wintry sunlight. Pale white and not chafed red by the wind. He longed to take one in his own hand, feel her soft skin. That very morning, he had risen before dawn, punished his body with crunches and pull-ups like he was still running drills in the army. Dripping sweat, panting, he had bent over the wash basin and stroked his traitorous cock to thoughts of Anya. Anya’s skin, Anya’s scent, Anya’s eyes. Let him purge himself before putting himself in her presence. It would be easier.

Or so he thought. She passed him tea and their fingers touched. Her eyes leapt up to his, blue as a decadent Romanov sapphire. He felt it in his heart, in the twisting of his groin. It was only the briefest moment, but Gleb still felt shaken. He looked down at his hands, so big and ungainly on the delicate lace. Thoughts of her undergarments came unbidden.

“You’ve been surviving the winter, comrade?” she said, tone full of forced pleasantries.

“You can call me Gleb. Please call me Gleb.” He looked up to see her nibble her lower lip, as if from nerves. His hand clenched, heart racing.

“Gleb, then,” came her reply after swallowing her tea.

“The winter is hard but we bear it,” he said.

She nodded, mouth tight. If only she did not look at him with such arresting eyes.

“And you’re liking the flat?” he said hopefully, eyes downcast.

“Yes, thank you.” So stiff, so formal. He had pulled a lot of strings to get her this place. All her lovely new things.

“Anything you need, you can — you can ask me.” Even to his own ears it sounded like too much. She had never actually asked him for anything. He recalled her fear when the soldiers had brought her to this place. How she had cried without a sound. As if she had practiced it, like a ballerina would her routine.

“There’s nothing I need.”

He looked up at her, the pale angles of her face. So lovely, almost regal. If only he could believe her. He wanted to reach over and tip her face towards him so she would look into his eyes. He wanted to truly see her. They sat so long in silence his tea went cold.

“I’ll leave you then,” Gleb said into the quiet stillness and Anya seemed to tense up. As though she had been holding her breath, waiting for him to speak. He had every intention of standing up, gathering his overcoat and hat and leaving her be. But he couldn’t move, trapped in the mire of her eyes.

Anya stood first, walked around the small table and laid a hand flat in the middle of his chest. Surely she could feel his heart then, jumping into her palm. He leaned back, away from the table and she sat sideways on his lap. Gleb could only sit rigidly, hands clenched at his sides. Her scent assailed him.

“Anya,” he breathed, close enough to disturb the stray curls escaping from her braid.

She looked at him with a kind of pleading intensity he couldn’t decipher and then she leaned in to kiss his neck. He breathed hard, sweat gathering on his temples despite the cool air as she stroked his chest, plucking at the buttons on his uniform. Her mouth was hot, teasing at the corner of his jaw and he let out a trembling moan despite how he tried to stifle it. He was so hard against her leg, so hard and throbbing already and she’d barely touched him. Her hand wandered across his undershirt, fingertips tracing the line of his suspender down, down to the waistband of his trousers.

He felt her sigh more than he heard it and then she was shifting, swinging her leg over while hiking up her skirts to straddle his lap. He grabbed her unconsciously by the waist to steady her. She felt so small in his arms, so delicate, but there was nothing dainty about the look on her face.

Heat crawled over his skin, heart pounding like a drumbeat in his ears. He could touch her now, hands tugging her shirtwaist from her skirts and cupping a warm breast through her camisole. A rush of lust made him moan into her mouth and she was unbuttoning his trousers. Desperate, he reached up her skirt, felt for the split in her combinations and the warmth of her cunt. His cock seemed to twitch against her hand, so aroused that it was wet and leaking.

Embarrassment was a passing thing. Especially when Anya pushed his hand away from her and replaced it with his cock. She felt so good, as though he’d never felt her before. He was trembling as she rode him, the chair creaking beneath them. He dropped his forehead on her shoulder, inhaled the fresh, clean scent of her hair. Under his hands, her thighs were soft, warm, the edge of her garters grazing his fingers. She could not have been more pure, more pristine, like ice on the Neva cracking in the spring. His climax shuddered through him like a rifle blast in the dead of night.

Panting, Gleb raised his head. Anya’s face, so close to his, was flushed a delicate pink. Her mouth looked so soft, so sweet; he went to kiss her but she turned her head. His spent cock slipped out of her as she pulled away. He tucked it inside his trousers shamefully as she stood up, fixed her clothes.

Goddamn her. Gleb could still smell her all around him. His throat was dry. He balled his hands into fists, knuckles sore. She must have bruises on her thighs from how hard he gripped her.

“You were leaving, no?” She turned only minutely to look at him, her profile rimmed in cold light.

“Yes,” he said, strained. “I was.”

His own flat felt even emptier after leaving hers, his bed so much colder. He had worked hard his whole life, devoted every moment he lived to honour and duty. How easily she could make him tear it all down. Vodka blurred his vision, burned his throat. If he had any brains at all he would let her be. But discipline would not save him this time.

The party should be his salvation. It always had been. But he found his focus slipping, flitting away from his dreary office and floating on an icy winter wind to find its way to Anya. Her hands, her mouth, her skin. It was a pull more potent than his work. His whole life’s work.

And so he was drawn back to her. Moths and flames came to mind. Days and evenings and each time he would hope to be a better man. Tea with Anya became like a game, a test to see how long he could hold out. She would pour him a cup and he’d watch as she sweetened it with honey, brightened it with a slice of lemon that daily grew more expensive. They’d chat mindlessly as the clock ticked loudly, the tea growing ice cold, the honey cake hard. She would serve them both vodka then, a few shots each and it would make it so much easier to give in when Anya would approach him. Take his hand, unbutton her blouse, pull up her skirt, the game over at last. He was helpless to resist. He hated her for it. He loved her for it.

But her chilliness would stick in his teeth. Her skin so hot to the touch, her mouth so warm, but she would turn her face away from him. Distance herself from him even as he clung to her.

The tea was barely cold one afternoon when she brought the vodka bottle out, poured them both a glass. It was hard enough to keep track of how much he had consumed, let alone Anya, who went down on her knees before him, hands a little frantic as she unclasped the belt of his uniform, started on his trousers.

“Anya—” he went to stop her, alarmed suddenly by the bloodless, stricken look on her face.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” she said sharply, mocking incredulity in her tone. “Your little whore, always ready to get on her knees?”

“Anya, stop—”

“Don’t give me the innocent schoolboy act, it doesn’t suit you, _comrade._ ”

Gleb stood up, towering over her. He grabbed her by the elbow, pulled her up so he could look her in the eye. “I only wanted to help,” he growled, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

“And in exchange for what? I’m not stupid, don’t treat me like an idiot—”

“I’m not _—_ I didn’t—” Gleb struggled for words, breathing hard, furious with her.

And then she laughed, cruelly.

Gleb’s fist tightened around her arm, fury building, and he shook her, twisted her arm until she cried out and then laughed again. Higher, more hysterical. He could have throttled her. He shoved her away instead, fists closing around nothing. “Foolish girl. This is your fault.”

Anya’s hand surprised him, flying at his face. The sound it made against his cheek was like ice breaking off a roof, a deadly shock to the unwitting passerby.

A flash of rage nearly made him grab her again, but instead he turned away. Poured himself more vodka. “You’re drunk,” he mumbled.

“So are you,” she snarled, slapping the glass from his hand. It cracked in half on the floor, cool vodka splashing on his boots.

Gleb did not want to hurt her. But he could grab her round the waist and lift her up, struggling, hitting him on the head and neck as he carried her to the couch, threw her down none too gently. He stood over her panting and she glared up at him fiercely. Where had this feisty girl been when he’d first encountered her sweeping the street? Buried deep perhaps, and even still she was afraid of him. There was a self-destructive kind of hysteria in her face now.

It should have compelled him to leave. To finally leave her be. Instead, Gleb sank to his knees. Anya watched him warily, her chest rising and falling rapidly. He lifted the hem of her skirt, his hands trembling minutely as they glided up her legs, over the silk stockings he had given her. Up to her garters and then smooth skin. She tensed, breath catching as he kissed the soft skin of her thigh.

“I hate you,” she choked out, but with none of her previous rage.

Hate was a strange thing, he thought. He had once thought love and duty were as interconnected as matryoshka dolls. One inside the other. Maybe he had overlooked the role of hate.

And despite everything, Anya did not pull away as his mouth trailed higher, his beard catching on the silk of her stockings. Perhaps her muffled gasp was in spite of herself too. But he could pretend it wasn’t, he could pretend she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

When he woke the next morning, head pounding, Gleb rolled over and saw Anya sleeping next to him, her hair a tangled mess of gold.

He’d never spent the night, never slept beside her no matter how drunk they both were. The previous night was hazy, but as he sat up with a groan, planted his bare feet on the icy floor, there was nothing hazy about the pain in his knees, what felt like a bite mark on his neck.

Shame was harder to feel when he had a hangover. Gleb washed his face, combed his hair, pulled on his undershirt and trousers. He was sliding his suspenders on when Anya made a sleepy groaning sound from the bed.

“Wake up, Anya,” he said, squeezing her bare shoulder.

She only grunted again, burrowing deeper in the blankets.

“Wake up, you’re lazy as a tsarina.”

“No,” was her muffled reply.

Gleb jerked the blanket from the bed and turned her bodily to face him. “You’re infuriating,” he said, brushing her lovely hair away from her face so he could look at her.

“Leave me alone,” she snapped, trying to twist away.

“No,” Gleb said simply, holding her wrists to the bed and nearly straddling her to keep her still.

Anya sighed deeply, blowing a stray lock of hair off her face. He was very aware of her nakedness, bare skin glowing in the morning sun. “My whole body hurts,” she complained.

“Oh?”

“Yes. My head especially.”

He bent down, pressed a kiss on her forehead and was caught again in her eyes, which drew him in like glittering hooks.

“My neck,” she said, turning her head to the side.

There was a bruise, and he could recall his mouth there, his rough attentions. His second kiss would be softer, a penance.

“My chest.”

Mouth dry, Gleb, kissed her where he had squeezed too hard the night before. He nosed the soft underside of her breast, brushed his lips against it. At her waist where he had clutched her, her hips that still bore bruises from his fingers.

“My thighs.” Anya nudged him off her enough to spread her legs, Gleb’s cheeks reddening at the sight. Perhaps as red as her inner thighs were now. “From this,” she muttered, reaching up to drag her fingers across his bearded cheek. He was no longer holding her to the bed.

“Ah.” Gleb scratched at his jaw and then ducked his head. Easier not to look at her. Easier to kiss the tender skin of her inner thigh, and higher still. He tasted her slickness, felt her move beneath him, arch slightly off the bed. As though eager for him, as though she wanted him.

She tasted like holding his breath under the Black Sea. Salty, sweet, like Russia. She came with barely a sound, as though she were trying not to. But when he raised his head to look at her, she was flushed pink all the way down her breasts and breathing hard.

He went to touch her face again and she slapped his hand as if on instinct. Gleb let out a deep sigh, pulling his eyes away from her nakedness. His cock was heavy and hot in his trousers.

“Don’t forget that I hate you,” she said lightly, rising up on her knees and pushing him down onto the bed by the shoulder.

“Never,” he said, breath catching as she straddled his hips, snapped his suspenders before pushing them off his shoulders. When she leaned down over him, her chest pressed to his, her face close to his, he could not resist trying to kiss her as he had tried countless times before.

Could not resist hoping that this time she would let him.


End file.
